


National Treasure

by Rahar_Moonfire



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers, National Treasure (2004)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, American Revolution, Bromance, Gen, Man Out of Time, Revolutionary War, Shy!America
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-09 21:03:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/777955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rahar_Moonfire/pseuds/Rahar_Moonfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Valley Forge. Hundreds of soldiers dying every day. Morale is low. America struggled to maintain hope during that delicate change between Colony and Nation, but every day that hope seemed dimmer and less substantial. Until finally typhoid took him and he disappeared from friendly eyes. Never to be heard of again.</p><p>The Gates family were shunned from the academic community because of their ridiculous conspiracy theory about the Founding Fathers and a National Treasure.  Until Benjamin Gates, with the help computer geek Riley Poole, archivist Abigail Chase, and Ben's father Patrick Gates, discovered the theory wasn't a theory after all. But there's more to this national treasure then gold or knowledge. After all, a Nation is precious too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Valley Forge

**Author's Note:**

> So, this idea has literally been bothering me since I first saw Hetalia. I've always been a huge fan of National Treasure (the FIRST movie, not the second) and thought it'd be cool if Alfie was part of the treasure, or knew about it. But I never bothered to write it because...well...I was afraid I'd be the only one with that idea. Which can be good...or it can be catastrophically bad. Hopefully, I erred toward to the good.  
> And before you ask, yes Prussia was involved in the American Revolutionary War. General Friedrich Steuben taught to American soldiers how to organize camp, to put the latrines on the opposite side of camp from the kitchens, to not leave rotting animal corpses around, and how to use a bayonet properly. True story. Look it up.

_It's cold. I shot him. It's so cold. I actually shot him. He was standing right there and I could've...I could've...but I...and now..._

He didn't even know any more.  Independence. British control. Independence. British control. He didn't know. How could he know? He shot him. He shot Arthur. He shot his brother.

_...so cold..._

"Oi!  Son, the soldiers are lining up."

_...so cold...shot him..._

"Son!"

_...why..._

"Soldier!"

 _...why won't he just leave me alone..._ _England..._

"Soldier!" Strong arms hauled him up abruptly and shook him until his eyes regained their focus. Glazed blue eyes wearily up at the newcomer in confusion. "Go join the lines. There's an inspection today."

Blue eyes blinked stupidly.  Inspection? For what? There was no hope. They were all going to freeze to death. Or starve to death. Or the illness would take them. His jumbled thoughts caught catches of speech muttered under the newcomer's breath, but nothing registered until-

"-bloody, stupid Americans."

The newcomer barely had time to gasp in surprise when he suddenly found himself slammed against a tree trunk back first and staring wide eyed into the bluest eyes he'd ever seen. And though he would never admit it until many years later, Gilbert Beilschmidt was more than a little intimidated.

"Don't you dare insult my people.  Don't you dare.  I know not who you are nor do I care. But you will not insult my people as you have.  These men and women are giving their lives for something they believe in. That alone should be worthy of praise. By insulting them, you insult me and I do not take insults easily, foreigner."

And suddenly, it became clear.  Eyes as blue as the clear sky, hair like grains of wheat, and strength like a buffalo; he had heard stories from Francis, but he had honestly been expecting a child, not a full grown man. But the longer he looked, the more he came to realize that this truly was a child. A terrified child, forced to attack his brother and torn apart by a war he was still much too young to fight.

"America." The young soldier stiffened. That was confirmation enough. "My apologies, son. I meant no offense. Do you know who I am?"

Blue eyes narrowed in concentration, but it was obvious the poor boy's head was muddled.  "It's alright if you don't," he continued. "I am Gilbert Beilschmidt, the German Kingdom of Prussia."

"Prussia?"

"Yes. I am here with General von Steuben. A mutual friend suggested our talents were needed to help your men defeat England."

Gilbert watched as clouds covered the clear blue and the young Colony seemed to wilt before him. "Defeat England?" A tired smile tugged the boy's lips. "No. Never defeat. We'll never win, don't you see? It is useless. We cannot win. He will never let me go."

"It's not up to him."

"I shot him."

Prussia blinked. "Say again?"

America drew a shaky breath.  "I shot him, England. In Lexington.  I started this. If I hadn't fired that shot, so many of my people would still be alive. England would still be here. We could still talk things through. There would still be a chance at peace."

"And there still is!" Prussia squeezed the young Nation-to-be's shoulders forcing the youth to meet his older, wiser eyes. "There is always hope so long as there are still people alive to believe. As long as there are people who call themselves American, there is hope yet."

America stared into his elder's crimson eyes and smiled sadly. "Did you not hear Mr. Adams theory of the ratio between Patriots and Loyalists? He said one third were Patriots, one third were Loyalists, and one third of the people, _my_ people, don't care either way. Don't care. They don't care. I don't care."

"I can hear them in my head," he whispered is soft horror.  "One minute I'll be screaming for Independence, the next I'll be fighting the urge to crawl back to Arthur on my hands and knees begging for forgiveness, and the rest of the time I feel...I feel like I'm aloof. There but not there. It's like I'm watching everything from a distance, or reading about it in a history book."

"But then I feel the death of each one of my citizens and my heart stops," he said, tears forming in his blue eyes. "I hear their screams and my heart bleeds. I feel England walking on my land, _my soil_ , and my entire body rejects it. He can't get near it. He can't have it. I can't let him. I won't. I promised. I have to be free. I have to. My people...I...I..." The boy leaned his head wearily against Prussia's chest. "I am going insane. I will not win this war. I cannot."

He broke off abruptly when his whole body began shaking and his breathing became quick and shallow. Prussia caught the boy just as his legs gave way beneath him and held him close until the fit passed.

Prussia sighed. The poor boy. For his first real experience with war on his own soil to be a revolution, and for the opinions of his people to be affecting him so, then things must be much more serious then he had originally thought. He and General Steubon had just only arrived the day before and even _he_ could see the horrible situation. 

"Does Washington know?"

"Know?"

"Who you are?"

"He knows I'm Alfred Jones, a former minuteman turned soldier in the Continental Army."

"But does he know what you are?"

America's shoulders sagged as he sighed deeply, sadly. "No. No he doesn't. And you shan't tell him either. The others need his attention more then I do. And besides, the last thing I need to do is add another thing to the already enormous pile of things for him to worry about."

"Does _anyone_ know?"

"Mr. Franklin does. So does Mr. Adams and Mr. Hamilton and possibly Mr. Jefferson I think. There could be more, but..." He sighed heavily. "I don't see how that matters right now."

Prussia bowed his head. "Then all I can say is you must have faith that things will be better."

America met Prussia's eyes with his own, and that was the last time he ever saw those eyes clear and coherent. The next time he saw them, they were glazed and dull from a particularly strong bout of typhoid fever that had been making the rounds in the camp. Then Hamilton appeared and spent several nights by the poor Colony's side. When Gilbert went to visit the young America again, the boy was gone. Washington remained tightlipped about the matter. Even when Prussia attempted to use his Nation standing against the general, the man said nothing. Washington knew, but he would not speak of it.

No matter how hard he searched, whom he asked, or what strings he pulled, Prussia never heard hide nor tail of the struggling Nation-to-be again. Not even when France joined the search. Not even when the England surrendered ending the war. Never.

Years passed. The United States of America continued to grow in both size and power at an astonishing rate, but still no word from the Nation himself. Canada never recovered from the loss and hesitantly took over America's duties in the World Conferences. Even England grew worried at his brother's unusual silence and reached out, but with no reply. In fact, there was no word from the young Nation ever again. 

Until four idiots who believed in something so strongly they went against the world found something that no one thought they'd ever see again.


	2. Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a sleeper awakes and several "treasure protectors" discover more than they bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** Whelp, I hope that was sufficient. I'm sorry for the delay. I'm studyingabroad in Italy and wifi is spotting at best. I'm currently sitting outside a hotel in 56 degree weather (Fahrenheit), at 11:04pm local time. I'm cold, tired, and I have got to use the restroom like there is no tomorrow. Tell me what you think.

It was the sound of footsteps echoing through the tunnels that had not heard the steps of humans in over 200 years that first began to stir him from his deep sleep. Words that were familiar but...not. Lights, flickering lights -flame- danced like blurred fireflies in the darkness of his mind. Flames, fire, heat. Not heat. Cold. Not cold. Cool. Heavy.

_...tired..._

"The Declaration!"

_...what?_

"Do you trust me?" the man asked.

_Trust you? ...who are you?_

"Yes," she replied without hesitation.

_...yes? Why?_

"Ben!"

_...Ben... Benjamin? Mr. Franklin?_

He blinked and a man, blurred as if looking through a dirty window, flickered dimly before him. He was struggling, the blur that was the man wriggling as whatever it was he clung to swung back and forth.

...the thing on the man's back...

The blurry man was going to fall. It was painfully obvious, even to the vivid dreamer, that this man was mortal. He would die.

...the thing on the man's back...the man...

_Mine._

The dreamer reached out and grabbed a handful of cloth and pulled. The blurry man lurched up just as the wooden beam he'd been clinging to snapped free. The dreamer braced himself against gravity, holding on before releasing his grasp as soon as the swinging dumbwaiter hovered once more above the platform the woman - _mine!-_  had previously landed on.

And let go.

For a brief moment, blurred gray eyes met crystal clear blue...and then blackness.

_...mine..._

The dreamer knew, he  _knew_  these people, this man, this...Ben, was his. The distant echoes of the tunnels sang distant, muddled praise to have  _his_  people walking in them again. But the song was so quiet, so unclear, so blurred...

So tired.

He felt so heavy, so exhausted, so drained, so...so...trapped. So alone. Ben? Mr. Franklin? Was he coming to wake him up? Was he trapped? He felt trapped. He couldn't move. He couldn't feel. He's couldn't see. He couldn't breathe.

_...scared..._

_...I'm scared..._

_...Brother? Don't leave me..._

_...Prussia, help me..._

_...Arthur...I'm sorry..._

_...I don't want to sleep. I don't want to be here. I want to wake up. I want to see. Brother. I want to wake up._

_I want to wake UP!_

CRACK.

A rush of air. His chest suddenly convulsed, drawing it in. Immediately, the thick, heavy veil of sleep began to lift. Muddled voices became clearer, feeling returned to his skin. Pinpricks of feeling zinged through his nerves, dancing along his hair follicles, and breathing life back into a body long lain to rest.

Air filled long still lungs. A heart beat in a long still chest. Blood flowed in long still veins. And finally, two eyes as blue as the sky far above opened and saw light for the first time in ages.

A flickering, golden light haloing four dark shadows. People.  _His people._  But if they were  _his_ , then...

"Did we win?" he murmured through lips long frozen in deathlike stillness.

Voices. Muddled but steadily becoming clearer. English, but...not. A local dialect?

_Mine._

The golden light moved. "...spoke...?"

_Mine._

"...revolutionary...doing here..." One of the shadows with long hair leaned to the side joining with another shadow that held the brightest of the lights.

_MINE._

"...alive...soldier..." One of the shadows leaned down to the awakened dreamer.

_Mine._

A shadowy hand touched his neck and something slung over the shadow's shoulder shifted.

"...careful...Ben..."

_MINE!_

The awakened dreamer's hand struck out, clutching blindly onto the strap of the satchel-like object and yanked the shadow person closer simultaneously pulling himself up.

"Mine!"

The other shadow people rushed to protect the captured shadow which slowly began to condense into a solid face. Dark hair, tan skin, narrow chin, and gray eyes like the sky on a cloudy day. Gray eyes, just like those of the person he saved.  _His_  person. Ben.

"Ben?" the awakened one whispered.

Gray eyes narrowed in confusion, sparkling with curiosity. "Yes," the man,  _his_  man, replied.

Hope, long buried deep within the earth, began to stir once more in a fluttering heart. "Di...did we win?"

Again, the gay eyes narrowed, then softened like Mr. Franklin's always had when speaking to this particular dreamer. "Yes. We did. We won."

Relief. Hope. Love. Adoration. Freedom. So many long buried emotions raced through a too long unfeeling body. To much at once.

"Mine."

The dreamer's hand loosened his grip and slid slowly back into the darkness he had long inhabited, sleep once again sinking its claws into its favorite captive. But this time, the sleep was not as deep.

* * *

 

Ben stared dumbfounded at this new surprise. Honestly, when the group began looking through the numerous treasures in the huge chamber after lighting the burning trough, he had expected more gold, old scrolls, maybe a decomposed corpse. Anything but a living, breathing,  _talking_ person. He almost thought it was a trick, except how could a person lock themselves this far underground, seal themselves into a sarcophagus from the outside, and be covered in a couple centuries worth of spider webs?

He brushed the spider webs aside to more clearly see this young person's face. "Impossible."

"I don't know man. I'm seein' it too. Having trouble believing it, but definitely seeing it," Riley said, still cowering behind Abigail but slowly slinking back out to look.

"I saw those locks," Patrick said. "They were rusted in place. No one could have broken them without leaving marks."

"But there's no way a human could survive down here for an extended length of time," Abigail sighed, the gears in her head almost rattling as she desperately tried to come up with a solution to this new puzzle.

"I've seen him before," Ben said quietly.

Ben's father shifted. "You've seen him before?"

Ben glanced up to meet his father's gaze before turning back to stare at the sleeper, still recovering from the shocking encounter. "Yeah, he...he saved me on the dumbwaiter. He just kind of...appeared and held me until I could land safely. Kept me from falling." He scratched his head in confusion. "He was blurry I...I... I thought I was hallucinating."

"Apparently not," Riley said, crossing his arms and gazing longingly back at the stairs. "So, can we get out of here and  _then_  work on this new puzzle? Please?"

"Ben?"

Ben turned to Abigail and shrugged helplessly before turning back to the still breathing person. Might as well. He leaned over and pulled the sleeper up, tossing him gently over his shoulder. He met his father's gaze, shrugged again, and began their trek back up to the surface.

This should be fun to explain.


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred wakes up and an old enemy plots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** And with that, another chapter is written. I admit, I'm not a huge fan of this chapter. It kinda got away from me. I just hope I can wrangle it back in somehow. also, for those of you who are interested and are reading my Cardverse fic _Of Witches and Spades,_ Lady will be in here, too. How could she not be?

Jared, called Jerry by his buds, was just finishing up his shift when he came into the crypt and saw the open tomb and the fallen casket. Unsure if what he saw was real, he reached out and picked up the bone arm. The HUMAN bone arm.

A dull thud echoed in the crypt and Jerry lifted his flashlight to the other still sealed tombs. Another thud and one of the stones jerked forward. A final thud and the stone leapt away from the crypt wall. Jerry jumped back, clutching his flashlight and the boney human arm close shaking in terror. This was the end. He would be the first victim of the zombie apocalypse. No hope. There was no-

"Hi."

The zombie speaks! And it looks incredibly human. How will the other humans know the difference?

"You have a cell phone I can borrow?"

Zombies use cell phones?

* * *

Ben sat on the stone stairs at the far end of the church in front of the alter holding the Declaration of Independence close. He shifted uncomfortably as Agent Peter Sadusky walked toward him. Honestly, this was not how the FBI agent expected to arrest Benjamin Gates. The man was clever and currently held one of the nation's most treasured documents in his grasp. So why turn himself in now? What changed?

He watched as Gates stood and handed a surprised Sadusky the Declaration of Independence. "Just like that?" he asked.

"Just like that," Ben said, nodding.

"You do realize you just handed me your biggest bargaining chip," Sadusky pushed.

Shaking his head, Ben shifting warily. "I don't see it that way."

Sadusky thought a moment before chuckling. "I take you found the treasure," he said, making himself comfortable on the steps.

The gray eyed man blinked at the agent's casual attitude but sat down next to the other man when prompted. He nodded, "It's about three stories beneath your shoes."

Sadusky chuckled disbelievingly. "You know," he said, brushing his Free Mason ring, "the Free Masons believed that the treasure was too big for any one man."

Ben's lips pulled up in the beginnings of a smile. "Yeah. I was thinking splitting it with the Louvre, the High Museum of Art, give it back to the world. It's theirs to enjoy and it should be returned to them to do so."

The agent gave Gates a knowing look, smiling. "You really don't understand the concept of a bargaining chip."

Gates chuckled. "I want the credit for finding the treasure to go to the entire Gates family with the assistance of Mr. Riley Poole and Miss Abigail Chase and for all our police records to be expunged. Oh, and a hospital for our friend."

Sadusky tilted his head to follow Gates line of sight to see the sleeping figure of a young man dressed in full Continental Army regalia, if a bit tattered and dirty from age. "Yes, I have been meaning to ask: who is your friend? He wasn't a part of your little group if I recall."

Ben shook his head. "No, he wasn't. You're not gonna believe this, but we found him sealed up in a sarcophagus in the treasure room. Believe me, I know it sounds strange and I would've had a hard time believing it myself if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. If you want, you can look at the sarcophagus yourself."

The FBI agent rubbed his chin in thought. "We'll deal with that. But first," he turned back to Ben, "about prison."

"I really, really don't wanna go to prison. I...I can't even begin to describe how much I don't wanna go to prison."

Peter met Ben's eyes sympathetically. "Someone's gotta go to prison, Ben."

That calculating look returned the the treasure protector's eyes. "Well if you have a helicopter," he smirked, "I think I can help with that."

* * *

Ian Howe could hardly believe it when he and his team were suddenly surrounded by cops in the middle of the night. When the agent began listing off his supposed transgressions, he chuckled. There was no way they'd be able to prove any of that.

And then the one person he never expected to see again walked out of the shadows. It was then he realized he had well and truly lost.

Well played Gates. Well played.

With that, he began planning his revenge.

* * *

When he opened his eyes again, his surroundings had changed again. Everything was still blurry, but not as blurry as before. The ceiling above him was white and smooth. The walls were a pale beige or white, it was hard to tell. He lay on a semi-comfortable bed covered in a sheet and a thin, but warm blanket that could be woven cotton. But again, it was hard to be sure. A strange beeping filled the air at a calming interval and there were strange devices surrounding his head and upper body. There was also a needle with a tube of some kind stuck into his wrist.

Immediately, the beeping began to increase in speed and the sound set him on edge. He tried to sit up, his muscles aching as if from stiffness after a long sleep. He blinked, noticing the sticky things on his chest beneath his apron and the clip on his finger. where were his clothes? And where did all the strange, outlandish things in the room surrounding him come from? Where was he?

The beeping continued to increase.

Voices sounded dimly through the wall, moving closer. What if it was the British? What if they had found him at last? What would they do? What would England do to him? He'd shot England. He shot his own brother.

The beeping was still picking up speed. Why wouldn't it stop?

He had to get away. Hamilton, where was Hamilton? And Washington. Were was the Continental Army? Were they still fighting? His Ben said they won. Was he mistaken? This Ben, he wasn't  _his_ , but he was still  _his_  Ben. Why was this? What was going on? The beeping won't stop. Why won't it stop? His head was killing him. It pounded like the drums on the battlefield. Steady, predictable, and constant. He felt like he was going to throw up.

Without another thought, he leaned over and did just that. His stomach heaved but nothing would come up except for clear liquid. He felt horrible, and the beeping still wouldn't stop.

Suddenly the voices were much louder and closer and hands were touching him, pressing him, guiding him back to lay down but he didn't want to lay down he wanted to get out he couldn't get out no way out let go let go let GO!

He pushed one of the people away, yanking out the needle as he did so. He winced at the pain but dismissed it. Climbing out of the bed, he wobbled precariously as he tried to make it to the window. Maybe if he knew where he was, he could find a way to escape.

He pushed the heavy, dark curtains aside and froze. The landscape spread before him was entirely unfamiliar and  _his_. But how could this be? He knew every part of his land, his cities, his towns, his people, everything. So why didn't he recognize this place?

New York.

This was New York. But...how...when...how...

The hands were back. He spun around, struggling against his captors when a gentle, female voice spoke. "Easy, easy. You're alright. You're okay. It's okay."

Mine.

As soon as the thought entered his head, he knew it was true. This person, this woman, Abigail Chase his mind provided, was his. She may not have been born on his soil, but she was his. A naturalized citizen. Naturalized?

She was his. His alone.

He sighed and leaned into her arms as tears slid down his cheeks and his tired body ached and shook. It was only then that he realized he was crying. His arms circled the woman's body and he clung to her as he wept. She didn't push him away. Instead, she shifted so she sat on the window ledge pulling him against her and let him cry.

It was too much. Too many thoughts, to many emotions, to many people, too many events. His head felt like it was going to explode. Canada was an ally? _England_ was an ally? Civil War? Texas? Hollywood? Washington, D.C.? Political parties? Disney World? Volcanoes? 9/11? Pearl Harbor? Fat Boy? Football? World Series? What was this? What were these memories? They were all his but... He could not for the life of him remember experiencing any of them. They were all strange but so painfully a part of him. Why wouldn't they slow down? Why couldn't he understand them? Why did it hurt?

Brother? Canada? England? ...Canada...? Help.

They were tearing him apart.

Eventually, he was able to calm his raging thoughts enough to regain some control. His breath still stuttered dangerously and his eyes still teared up but he felt exhausted enough to just be held. Thankfully, the woman was still there holding him and whispering to him. She even kissed his head.

"Hey! I heard what happ-"

He lifted his head to look at the newcomer.

 _Mine_.

The man relaxed his stance and met their gazes calmly as another man leaned into the room cautiously. "Hello."

He waved shyly in return still clinging to Miss Abigail. The man smiled and walked up slowly to kneel by their side. "My name's Ben. You've already met Abigail and this," he waved back to the cautious man, "is-"

"Riley Poole," he finished.

There was a beat of silence before Mr. Ben smiled again and nodded encouragingly. "That's right. It's nice to meet you."

The man stretched out his hand to him and he considered it a moment before meeting it with his own. "Alfred," he whispered. "My name is Alfred."

"Alfred Franklin Jones."

Everyone looked up as an older man with graying hair and kind eyes entered the room. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you. I'm-"

"Peter Sadusky, agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation," Alfred finished.

Mr. Sadusky smiled genially. "So it really does work," he commented quietly, almost to himself. Louder, he said, "No one really calls it that, you know. Too much of a mouthful. Just FBI will do."

Alfred began to sit up, still keeping contact with Miss Abigail, but adding a sense of independence to himself. Sadusky grinned at the subtle movement. Abigail, however, wasn't exactly impressed.

"So, how'd it go?" she asked.

"Everything's been taken care of. We have our prisoner, no harm done. The treasure in the midst of-"

"Treasure?" Alfred gasped. "You found it?! But England! England will-"

"England will only get what is theirs," Mr. Sadusky said, raising his hand to calm Alfred's frightened outburst. "As will France, and Germany, and Italy, and Egypt, and any other country that has a right to it. It's going back to where it belongs. I promise."

Alfred bit his lip. Mine. The word repeated itself in his head whenever he looked at any of these people. They were all his. They could not lie to him. They were his, and he was theirs.

"And the War?" he asked, unable to curb his curiosity.

"Won." Mr. Sadusky heaved a sigh. "This is going to be a bit difficult for you to understand right now, but I can promise you we won."

"Then who are we fighting now?"

Mr. Sadusky grimaced, his eyes sympathetic. "Terror." He watched as Alfred's expression cleared somewhat in a vague understanding.

"Then what about me? What will I do? Where do I go? Mr. Franklin and Mr. Washington and Mr. Hamilton, they're all..."

"Dead, yes. Have been for quite some time."

Alfred nodded vaguely. "I see."

"I've been authorized to keep you under protective custody for the time being," Sadusky said in a calm voice. "That said, you'll be staying with Mr. Gates and Miss Chase, here. They've kindly offered up their new home and I think it will be good for you. You can ask them questions, catch up on all you missed, and if you need anything," he placed his wizened hand on Alfred's young looking shoulder, "don't hesitate to call me."

Worry, assurance, hope, joy, sympathy, and sorrow flowed through Alfred from the simple touch and he couldn't  help but return the gesture. "Do they know?" he asked, nodding to the others in the room.

The FBI agent shrugged. "No, but if you want to tell them, you can. Even the government knows when it's authority is overwritten." He smiled then. "It's good to have you back, son."

The Nation returned the smile and silently prepared himself for a new future. But first, he had to find Canada. He had to see his brother again.


End file.
